i p ' ' 

esT'Y THE 

OLD WISCONSE 



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By WILLIAM ELLIS 



THE PHILOSOPHER PRESS, WAUSAU, 
WISCONSIN. JUNE. MDCCCXCIX 




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Glass _ 



THE 
OLD WISCONSE 

By WILLIAM ELLIS 




THE PHILOSOPHER PRESS. WAUSAU. 
WISCONSIN, IUNE.MDCCCXCIX 



Publ. 






Iff 



£ 






This poem was written for, and originally 
published in. The Northwestern Lumberman, and 
to its publisher, Mr. W. B. Judson, acknowledge- 
ment for its use is made by The Philosopher 
Press. 



THE OLD 
WISCONSE 



The Old Wisconse 



An' so ye think the Old Wisconse *s a mighty 

pretty stream ? 
A tumblin' 'round among the rocks, an* 

sparklin ' with the gleam 
Of sunshine fallin' through the spray, like 

di'monds in the hair 
Of women who seem bent to see what gewgaws 

they kin wear? 
Well, yes, she is a pretty stream, leastwise she 

is to me — 
But laws — I ' ve seen the days when ' deed she 

was a stream to see. 
She aint no-ways the crick she was way back in 

early days. 
With lots of camps an ' loggers all along her 

windin ' ways. 



The Old Wisconse 



The railroad seems to kind o ' knock the beauty 

from the scene. 
The birds don't seem to harmonize with 

sizz'Iin screechm ' steam ; 
There aint no livin ' railroad that can run a piece 

o' wood. 
An ' do the sense of nature in a man a bit of 

good. 
It kind o ' takes the tuck clean out a quiet, 

peaceful stream. 
To see the world go rushin ' by behind the push 

of steam. 
An ' when it comes to foliage, bright with all its 

autumn shades. 
You can't get that from wire-strung poles cut 

out from forest glades. 



The Old Wisconse 

You folks don't know the Old Wisconse, 

a-hdin ' by in cars ; 
A-leavin * Tomah when the sun 's just kissin ' out 

the stars. 
An ' gett ' n ' up to Tomahawk along at sun-high 

noon — 
That's goin* up the Old Wisconse a heap o' 

sight too soon. 
You can't see where she glides out from the 

ovefhangin ' trees — 
That smile upon her as they bow beneath the 

gentle breeze : 
You can 't see where the waters dash up into angry 

foam 
Against the rocks that seem to try to stop them 

as they roam. 



The Old Visconse 

I mind the time — it 's years ago — I started from 
the P'int, 

An ' got along to Joe Dessert *s to stay for over- 
night. 

An ' thanked my lucky stars an ' all the gods I 
ever had. 

That I had got a chance to sleep one more night 
in a bed ; 

'Cause I was on my way clear up to seven-thirty- 
three. 

An * I knew that was nigh the last of livin ' I 
should see. 

Yes, Hess your soul, I looked the land all over 
this here stream 

Long 'fore they ever had a mill that used a pound 
of steam. 



The Old Wisconse 



An' when a feller's got his house all strapped 

across his back. 
An* starts out in the woods to tramp without a 

sign of track , 
With heaven's great, broad, blue, deep sky the 

only roof he's got. 
An' sweetly smellin' boughs of pine to be his 

only cot. 
He somehow gets a long ways nearer to what God 

had ought to be. 
Than you can get in any church that I have ever 

see ; 
An' I don't b'lieve you ever heerd such songs 

of music sweet 
As comes from God ' s bright songsters in the 

Wildest wood * s retreat. 



The Old Wisconse 



Somehow you get away from things that bother 

up the mind , 
An ' then you can *t help thinkin ' things a mighty 

different kind 
Than when the rush of saw-raills an ' the crash of 

railroad trains 
Keep business deals and flggers hustlin', bustlin ' 

through yer brains : 
An , somehow when ye get alone, away out in the 

pines , 
Ye think of things ye would n * t think at any 

other times. 
An * on such trips as these, alone , in days long 

years ago , 
The Old Wisconse an ' me was friends , as on 

her way she flowed. 



The Old Wisconse 



An * then she was a pretty stream — shy like a 

modest maid. 
She ' d peep out from a glassy pool beneath a 

forest glade , 
Then coy she ' d dance along awhile , as gay as 

any girl , 
An * then she ' d break out in the gayest , maddest, 

merriest swirl , 
An ' dash down over rocks an ' stones , as mad as 

any shrew. 
An', 'shamed-like, on she 'd float away in quiet, 

placid blue. 
Oh, she was like a woman in them good old by- 
gone days — 
She had her failin ' s , true to tell , but she had 

her winnin ' ways. 



The Old Wisconse 



But now her beauty* s most all gone ; she *s broken 

down by work , 
For , what with all hef loveliness , the "Wisconse 

aint no shirk ; 
She's toted down the saw -logs that was once her 

life an ' pride , 
She ' s turned the wheels of saw-mills , that have 

sprung up by her side ; 
She ' s give her wealth of water to the clouds for 

gentle rain 
That bathes the land in plenty so it brings forth 

fruit again ; 
She waits in prison-cage dams for the drive the 

saw-mills need. 
While beauty fades and glory dies to satisfy 

man * s greed. 



The Old Wisconse 



But then , she ' s still the Old Wisconse , an * 

still she * s dear to me ; 
I love her for the long years past ; for what she 

used to be ; 
An ' now I s * pose she * s worth the more, with 

all her towns an ' mills ; 
The whistles mean more business than the wild 

birds ' sweetest trills. 
But I can ' t help rememb'rin ' how she looked 

long years ago , 
When through the untouched timber was the path 

she used to flow , 
An' 'taint no use a talkin ', them there was the 

days for me — 
The Old Wisconse wont never seem the crick 

she used to be. 



